


Take My Hand

by flyinggirl139



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Soon to be updated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:42:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4232661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyinggirl139/pseuds/flyinggirl139
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you went out to the bar one night after being unceremoniously dumped by your fiance, you had never imagined that it would set in motion a series of life changing events, dragging you into a world of ghosts, demons, and sparkling hazel eyes ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: this is nowhere CLOSE to finished! Will update tags, characters, etc as it goes along. This is going to be a nice, long, fluffy Sam x Reader with some angst and ... probably more than a little porn :)

Every few weeks, you have the same discussion.

Maybe you’re chopping vegetables, or maybe you’re sorting whites and darks in the bunker’s cavernous laundry room. Maybe you’re sitting at your desk, cleaning your Ruger 9mm.

He’ll walk in, lean against the doorway, filling the space with his 6’4” frame.

“Can we talk?” he’ll ask.

You’ll sigh, go back to what you were doing. “Sam, don’t start this again.”

“I just want to make sure you’re still okay,” he’ll say.

“I’m still okay,” you’ll say.

He’ll be quiet for a long time. “It’s my fault you’re here.”

“No,” you’ll say, examining the zucchini or the t-shirt or the piece of your weapon you’re holding. “You were the one who _got_ me here, but I’m the one who decided to _stay_.”

“You had a normal life.”

“And it sucked balls.” You’ll put the whatever-it-is down, stand up, step toward him. “Sam, I know you think I’m crazy for walking away from all that, but everything – _everything_ – I need is right here.”

“Okay,” he’ll say.

There will be another pause.

“You can still go if you want to, you know.” He’ll sigh, run a hand through his hair. “I’d miss you like – like hell … but I would understand.”

“I know, Sam.”

Somewhere around the two-year mark, he stops asking.

* * *

 

They found you in a bar.

Dean had been making a lot of noise, calling out for an opponent for the next game of pool, but after seeing the way he’d wiped the table with the last guy, no one in the place seemed interested. Sam watched with amused eyes from a booth, nursing his beer.

“C’mon, nobody wants some of this?” Dean yelled, standing his cue up straight and grinding on it like a stripper pole. A few women watched from a corner, giggling to each other.

Suddenly you had stood up from your seat at the bar, draining your (sixth? maybe?) Jack Daniels. The room spun and you stumbled slightly on your way over to him. “Fuck it,” you said, too loudly. “I’ll play.”

Dean had given you the once-over as he said, “You sure about that?”

“Fuck yes I am,” you said, the words thick with alcohol. “C’mon, let’s do this.”

“Well, okay,” he said with laughter in his eyes. “What’s the bet?”

You yanked your diamond engagement ring painfully off your finger and set it down on the side of the table.

Dean looked at it and then back up at you, his eyes suddenly serious, searching. “You sure you don’t need that?”

“Not anymoooreee,” you said in a sing-song voice. “Not since ten thirty … ten thirty-six this morning – woah!”

You had tripped, grabbing the edge of the table for support. Dean caught you by the elbow, motioning for Sam to come help.

“I don’t think you need to be playing pool right now, darlin,” he’d said. “Why don’t you sit down and drink some water?”

Dean balanced you back on your stool, giving the bartender a pleading look. The woman set a big glass of water in front of you and you took a hesitant sip.

You swiveled on your stool to watch the show that Dean had resumed putting on, dancing with the pool cue, flirting with the giggling girls in the corner. Finally a youngish guy in a polo shirt walked up and said, “I’ll play you, bro.”

Dean grinned. “C’mon, what’s the bet?”

Dean’s eyes lit up as the kid pulled a wad of cash out of the pocket of his pink shorts. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

He made a sweeping gesture around the bar. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a brave contestant here willing to blow his daddy’s money on an ass-whooping –”

Sam was shaking with silent laughter from his booth, but you missed the rest of what Dean was saying thanks to the cheap leather jacket that appeared a foot in front of you.

You looked up at the dude, leering with a nicotine-stained smile, reeking of cigarettes and bad cologne.

“Nice legs, sweetheart,” he said, looking your body up and down in a way that made your stomach curl. “What time do they open?”

At any other moment you would have had a sharp comeback but the whiskey had slowed your wit to a crawl. The guy leaned closer and you tried not to gag.

“Um –”

“C’mon, baby,” he said. “Let me buy you a drink.”

He put a hand on your thigh, squeezing a little when you tried to move away.

“Um, I don’t really think –”

Suddenly the sleazeball was pulled forcefully backward, away from you, and you looked up – way up, holy shit – to see Sam practically lifting the guy off the ground by a fistful of the shiny jacket.

“Is he bothering you?” Sam said through gritted teeth. Under his arm you could see Dean, who had abandoned his game and was coming closer as he realized what was going on.

Still trying to catch up to the situation through what felt like a lake of alcohol, you nodded silently.

“C’mon, man,” the guy whimpered, trying to squirm out of Sam’s grip. “We were just having a conversation.”

“Really? Because from where I was it looked like she wanted you to _fuck off_ ,” Sam said. He let go, shoving the guy, who stumbled and muttered something about Sam being a “fucking asshole” before half-running away.

“We should probably get her out of here,” Dean said, and Sam nodded.

You stood, wobbling a little, stepping closer to Sam, who suddenly seemed very blurry. “Tha – thank you –”

Dean said, “Dude, she’s gonna –”

In an instant, Sam reacted, reaching out to catch you before you hit the floor.

“Shit,” you heard him say, and then the world went black.


	2. Chapter 2

You woke up with your head pounding. As your eyes focused, you saw that you were on a bed in a motel room, still in your jeans and t-shirt, but barefoot. Your ring sat on the nightstand beside you. You sat up, groaning.

“Ah, she lives,” Dean said, coming out of the bathroom. He was fully dressed but with damp hair, rubbing a towel over his head. He tossed you a small bottle of aspirin, and you caught it, startled.

“Oh, God,” you said. “Did I – did we –”

“Nah,” Dean said. “No offense, but I prefer my women conscious. And single. Water?”

You took the glass he offered you, taking a long gulp to wash down the little white pills. Wiping your mouth, you said, “Actually, I am single.”

Dean paused, gesturing toward the ring on the nightstand. “So the fiancé is …”

“In Vegas by now,” you said. “With _Cheryl_ from Human Resources.”

“Ah.” He said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you said, waving a hand. “Dude was a piece of shit.”

Dean sat down at the table, picking up a newspaper and skimming through it.

You swallowed, your throat dry. Now what?

“Where’s, uh, the tall one?”

“Sam?” Dean said, and you made a note of the name. _Sam_. “He’s getting breakfast. Should be back any minute.”

The prediction came true: not three minutes later, Sam came through the door laden with paper bags full of breakfast burritos. As everyone tucked in, Sam flipped through the newspaper that Dean had abandoned.

You cleared your throat a little. “Hey.”

The two men looked up at you, eyebrows raised.

“Thanks, um, for all this.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sam shrugged.

“No, seriously,” you said, turning to him. “It’s Sam, right? Listen, I don’t really – remember a whole lot of what happened – but I remember you got me out of a pretty shitty situation.”

“You needed help,” he said simply, returning to the newspaper. You decided to let it go, munching on your burrito in silence.

Finally he said, “Hey, Dean, did you see this?” _Dean,_ you thought.

“Yeah, I saw it,” Dean said. “Think it’s worth checking out?”

“Don’t you?” Sam asked. “I mean, it sounds awfully familiar, doesn’t it? Like –” He glanced at you and lowered his voice slightly. “Like in Manning a few years back? With – with Dad?”

You paused chewing for a moment, looking from one man to the other.

“Are you guys brothers?”

They looked at you.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Listen, we can give you a ride home. Where did you say you were from again?”

You tried to say something. You really did. When you opened your mouth, though, a hard lump rose in your throat and tears stung your eyes.

“Woah,” Dean said, laughing uncomfortably. Sam’s neutral expression had switched to one of quiet concern. “It’s just a question.”

“I can’t go home,” you said. “Yesterday I was thrown out by the man I’d been dating since I was seventeen. Everything I had belonged to him and his stupid rich family.”

The boys looked at each other as you started to cry, not even caring that your nose was starting to run.

“He’s probably changed the fucking locks by now.”

“You don’t have anywhere to go?” Dean said helplessly. “No family in another state? We could buy you a bus ticket.”

You shook your head miserably.

“I’m sorry, guys,” you said. “You didn’t know I was some kind of charity case. I’ll be okay if you just leave me here.”

“We’re not going to do that,” Sam said.

Dean looked at him. “What do you suggest, then?”

“I say we take her back to the bunker.” Sam was looking at his brother with a pleading expression on his face.

 _Bunker?_ you thought.

“No,” Dean said. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s only temporary, Dean,” Sam said. “We basically kidnapped her, we owe it to her to help her figure out what to do next.”

You were looking back and forth between the two men as though you were watching a tennis match.

“I have money,” you said. “My dad left me some cash in a safety-deposit box when he died. I have a few things, clothes and stuff, in a storage locker. And, uh, I could pawn the stupid ring. Listen, I know you guys don’t know me at all, but if you give me a place to stay, three days tops, I’ll be gone before you know it.”

Sam and Dean looked at you, and then back at each other.

“What would you have done if we hadn’t picked you up?” Dean asked.

You swallowed.

“I have no idea,” you whispered.

“C’mon, Dean,” Sam said. “Let’s just help her out. We’ll pick up her stuff, take her back to the bunker, and then we can go deal with – uh, the thing.”

Finally Dean sighed. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll take you back to our place. Three days. Trust me, you won’t want to stay longer than that.”

* * *

 

You were a bit skeptical when the boys pulled up outside what looked like an abandoned warehouse.

“Ah, shit, is this some kind of serial killer dealio? You guys seemed so nice,” you said nervously, only half-joking, fiddling with the strap on one of the duffel bags you’d pulled from your locker. Nestled inside was a paper bag full of the contents of your father’s deposit box: you’d been pleased and shocked to realize that it was nearly fifty thousand dollars.

“Don’t worry,” Sam said reassuringly. “It looks better on the inside.”

“Holy shit,” you breathed in agreement, stepping into the cavernous space, with its high arched ceilings and luxurious architecture.

You looked around at the two men, who were both smiling a little at your reaction. “Who _are_ you?”

Dean’s smile disappeared. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’m gonna pack the car, Sammy, why don’t you show her where she can sleep and shower and stuff.”

Sam led you to a small, sparse room, which was cozy despite the fact that you seemed to be underground. There were no sheets on the bed.

“We don’t get many, uh, guests,” Sam said apologetically. He looked around, then crossed to the small armoire. “There should be – yes.”

He pulled out a set of bedding, which you could tell was of a very high quality. As you helped Sam make the bed, you noted with interest a symbol that was embroidered onto the edge of the sheet, the pillowcases, and the comforter: a set of triangles arranged inside a circle like an oddly-shaped star.

“The bathroom is down the hall and to the right,” Sam said. “I’ll find you a towel and a robe.”

The items he brought back were light gray and fluffy, and again you noticed the weird star.

Once you seemed to be settled in, Sam said, “Listen, my brother and I have to go – take care of something. We won’t be back tonight, and we might not be back tomorrow night either. There should be plenty of food in the kitchen, feel free to help yourself.”

He paused, running a hand through his chocolatey hair. “And, um, don’t … mess with anything, okay?”

You nodded, then, on an impulse, leaped up to hug him. Your head barely came up to his broad chest. He stiffened, then relaxed a little, patting you awkwardly on the back.

You pulled away, tucking a strand of hair shyly behind your ear. “Thanks,” you said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam said. He pulled out a small scrap of paper and handed it to you, his hazel eyes piercing your own. “Call if you need anything.”


	3. Chapter 3

When you heard the massive front doors click shut, it occurred to you that for the first time since Thomas had walked out, you were well and truly alone.

You fiddled with the ring, which you were wearing out of habit more than anything else. Dean had raised his eyebrows, watching you put it on before you’d left the motel room, but he’d said nothing and for that you were grateful. You’d mentioned pawning it but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it, not quite yet.

It was just like Thomas, you thought. He was temperamental in a way that you’d always regarded with affection, prone to lengthy bursts of wild passion – for a hobby, a cause – before his interest would dwindle and fail, and he would be on to something new.

You’d imagined that five years was long enough to galvanize it; that if your relationship had lasted five years then it could last forever.

In the end, though, he’d finally grown bored with you just like with everything else.

You had to admit you could hardly blame him, you thought bitterly to yourself. You’d started dating him when you were both teenagers and from that point on it seemed like your growth and development had revolved around him. You were not your own person. Every interest and personality trait you had was inspired and dictated by Thomas. And now here you were, at the age of twenty-two, trying to figure out who you were without him.

Apparently you were the type to go home with mysterious men you met in bars.

You took the ring off your finger for the second time in two days, letting it clatter into a corner of the small drawer in your bedside table. You could figure out what to do with that later.

Curling up on top of the rich, fluffy quilt, you finally allowed yourself to cry until you fell asleep.

* * *

Because you’d gone to sleep in the middle of the afternoon, you woke up starving and headachy around 11pm, with the wrinkled pattern of the bed linens etched into the side of your face.

Disoriented, it was a moment before everything came flooding back to you once again: Thomas breaking up with you, the night at the bar, Sam and Dean, the long drive in the sleek black muscle car and their weird – house? Fort? The bunker, they’d called it.

You remembered that Sam had told you to help yourself to food, but he hadn’t mentioned where. You pulled out the scrap of paper he’d given you, getting ready to call and ask, but then you decided that was ridiculous. You were sure you could find the kitchen on your own, how big could the place be?

Pretty big, as it turned out.

As you wandered around, you realized the place reminded you of an old-fashioned military base. It was a maze of long hallways and mostly locked doors and everywhere was the symbol you’d seen on your bedding – the weird star inside a circle.

Your confusion grew. Who the hell _were_ these guys? As nice as they seemed, you hadn’t really ruled out “serial killers” just yet. “Cult” also seemed like a likely option.

Finally you found the kitchen, obviously meant for a huge number of people; everything was industrial-sized. And _old_ , you noticed.

You crossed to the fridge and were pleased to see that it was fully stocked, as Sam had said. You dug around until you found the materials for an omelet.

A little more sure in your sense of direction, you decided to bring your food out to the main room, which seemed like a nicer place to sit and eat. Looking around, you saw that a huge portion of the walls were lined with shelves, all full of books that appeared to be as old as everything else. You touched the polished wooden surface of the chess table, glanced at the bar cart with its decanters of whiskey.

You shuddered. You’d probably had enough whiskey for a while.

Instead, you took a peek at the books, running your fingers down the smooth leather spines. A little guilty, you remembered Sam had said not to “mess with anything.” Surely you could just read some books, though, right? Until you figured out where you were headed next, it was going to be a long three days if you didn’t have _anything_ to do.

You pulled one out at random, carrying it over to the table where your food was. As you sat down to eat, you opened the book to a random page, noting with interest the rich quality of the creamy antique paper.

You had skimmed a couple of paragraphs before you realized you were reading about vampires.

What the hell? You shut the book, holding your place with your finger and tilting the front cover at an angle to the light so you could read the title embossed into the leather. “The Life and Practice of the Transylvanian Fanged Devil,” it said. You checked the publication date: 1835.

You closed the book and placed it back on the shelf, squinting to examine some of the others. There were a few more about vampires but the subjects ran the gamut: demonic possession, ghosts and spirits, werewolves, angels – what the _hell_?

Your omelet got cold as you walked the perimeter of the room, running your hands over all the books. It was the same all around, a library of the occult and the supernatural.

Okay, so Sam and Dean had some sort of weird – obsession, you thought. Maybe they were devil-worshippers. Maybe _they_ were vampires, you thought suddenly; it would explain why everything they had was so old-fashioned: everything in the bunker, the retro car …

You pushed the thought aside. That had to be the dumbest thing you’d come up with all week. Vampires didn’t exist.

Even if it was kind of bizarre, you thought, it might be interesting to read about some of these things. You’d always enjoyed ghost stories as a kid.

You picked a few volumes that caught your eye and stacked them on the table next to your plate. Your food was now downright chilly, but you didn’t care; you shoveled bites of it absently into your mouth as you cracked open one of the books and began to read.


	4. Chapter 4

You awoke very suddenly around four in the morning to a distant crash and what sounded like a string of curses, rough, like someone was in pain.

You sat bolt upright, checking your phone, squinting at the brightness. The boys hadn’t said they would be back yet. Was someone breaking in?

With your eyes adjusting slowly to the dark, you dragged on a white tank top and a pair of pajama shorts. After a moments’ hesitation, you dug your shaking hands down into your duffel bag and pulled out your 9mm. It had been a gift from your father.

The sounds had died down a bit, but you could hear rough voices coming from what seemed like the bunker’s main room. You raised your gun and crept, barefoot, down the hall, ears pricked, following the sound.

Your heart pounding, you stepped into the room with your gun raised.

“Woah woah woah – fuck –” Dean shouted, his voice rough, contorted with pain.

You nearly dropped your weapon in your surprise. You managed to catch yourself, lowering the gun and staring at the scene in front of you.

Dean was sitting on top of the illuminated table, most of the objects having been cleared unceremoniously onto the floor. Sam was half doubled-over in a chair, squeezing his upper arm so tightly his knuckles were white. They stood out sharply against what you realized with a lurch of your stomach was Sam’s own leaking blood.

In fact, both the boys were absolutely covered in blood, boots and jeans muddy to the knees. Dean had a cut across his cheek that was already starting to crust over, and half of Sam’s face was swollen and bruised.

They were both clearly nursing much more serious injuries, however. Sam was bleeding through his clamped fingers even as you watched, and Dean was clutching an arm that you suddenly realized – with another lurch of your stomach – was broken.

“Oh my god,” you said, setting down the Ruger, fumbling for your phone. “Hang on – let me – ambulance – ”

“ _NO_ ,” Dean yelled, so forcefully that you let out a squeak as your phone clattered to the floor. “No ambulances.”

“What do I do?” you said, frantically, half-panicked, looking from one of the boys to the other.

Sam looked up, and your stomach dropped. His face was almost gray except for two high red dots on his cheeks, and you could tell he was in excruciating pain. How had these two even managed to drive back from wherever they’d been?

“First aid kit,” Sam gasped out. “Top shelf. Kitchen.”

You remembered the one he was talking about. You’d found it when you were looking for a frying pan. You took off in a sprint, coming back with the kit in a flash, dumping the contents out onto the table.

Dean let go of his useless arm long enough to scoot closer to the supplies, reaching out with his one good hand for the bandages. You grabbed his wrist, suddenly taken over by a frightening calm. You knew what to do.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you said to Dean. “Let me.”

For a moment you saw a battle brewing in his green eyes, and then it went away. “Okay,” he gasped. “Him first though. This isn’t getting any more – fuck – broken.”

Quickly and silently, you went to work on Sam. “I think the whole shirt has to go,” you said, and he nodded, unable to speak. You grabbed a small utility knife from the supplies arrayed on the table and ripped the tshirt quickly up the back, wincing as you exposed an expanse of bruised and lacerated skin.

The gash was on the back of Sam’s upper arm, just out of his reach, and when you peeled the fabric away from it – Sam letting out a groan of agony – you could see that it was deep but not very large.

“I’m going to have to stitch this up,” you said.

Sam nodded.

You cast around on the table, grabbing the necessary supplies. You popped the cork on an old-fashioned bottle of alcohol and poured it generously over the gash. Sam squirmed and his eyes watered, but he didn’t make a sound.

As you stood behind him and started to stitch up the cut, slowly but evenly, his breathing slowed to a relatively normal rate and you realized that his bare skin was patterned lightly with old scars, just like the kind this would be when it healed. So this kind of thing happened all the time, then.

You worked away silently for a few minutes and then finally spoke.

“Are you two going to tell me what the _fuck_ is going on?”

You tugged the last stitch shut and snipped it off neatly, reaching for an antibacterial salve to spread on the wound.

Dean looked up at you, still cradling his arm, which had swollen to an impressive shade of purple. His voice was still ragged with pain, but his tone was even.

“Our job got the better of us, is all,” he said. “Trust me, it’s better if you don’t know.”

Sam was flexing the fingers of his wounded arm experimentally as you stepped in front of him to wrap the bandage properly. You were pleased to see that some of the color had returned to his face. Despite yourself, your eyes swept over his exposed torso, the broad, powerful shoulders, the abs, the tattoo on his chest –

The tattoo! Where had you seen that design? It hit you suddenly, with the force of a small truck: one of the books, about demon possession. It was intended to ward away demons.

 _Demons_?

Your eyes caught Sam’s, your face barely eighteen inches away from his. He’d seen you looking.

“Did –” you started to whisper, your throat dry. You swallowed, started again. It seemed too insane, but you suddenly needed to ask, needed to know. “Did a demon do this to you?”

Dean looked up, eyebrows raised, while Sam’s eyes glittered, latched onto your own. You coughed nervously. “I, uh, I peeked at a couple of your books.”


	5. Chapter 5

“So it’s all real,” you said, taking a long swig of your beer. “Demons, monsters, all of it.”

“All of it,” Sam said.

“And it’s your … job … to track these things down and kill them.”

“It’s a unique skill set,” Dean said.

“And the things that kicked your asses tonight were –”

“Fucking _vampires_ ,” Dean said. “I have met a total of _one_ vampire who wasn’t a complete asshole.”

Sam glanced up at him. “You say that about angels, too. And werewolves, and demons –”

“False,” Dean said. “All demons are assholes. It’s literally their job.”

You and Sam had both winced horribly at the sound that Dean’s arm made when you reset the bone, but to his immense credit, he’d only let out a kind of strangled cry.

You’d splinted the arm as best you could, wrapping it with some wide bandages you found in the bathroom cabinet, but Dean had glared down all suggestions that maybe he should have a professional take a look at it.

You’d all gotten cleaned up – your white tank top had been so heavily stained with Sam’s blood that you almost laughed as you threw it in the garbage – and then gathered back in the main room for a drink and something the boys called “the talk.” It was nearly six am.

“It seems like we underestimated how many there were,” Sam said quietly, referring to the vampires.

“We got ‘em, though, didn’t we Sammy?” Dean’s arm was resting on top of a stack of pillows on the table, in the hopes of making the swelling go down. You decided not to think about how the glass of whiskey he clutched in his good hand would affect that process.

Dean set the glass down and then smacked the table’s illuminated surface lightly with his palm. “Alright, we played _Twenty Questions_ , now it’s your turn,” he said.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“What do you mean, what do I mean?” he said. “You know, I have brought home a lot of women from a lot of bars and none of them have ever turned out to be some kind of Florence Nightingale with fifty grand and a gun.”

You sighed, fiddling with the label on your beer bottle. The story was practiced by now.

“I was a ‘special little miracle,’” you said, rolling your eyes. “Mom and Dad had me when they were in college and they both dropped out. My mom’s family gave her a choice when they found out she was pregnant: she could either have the baby or she could stay in the family. So, uh, here I am.”

You took a long sip, and then a deep breath before continuing.

“Meanwhile my dad had been pre-med, so when I came along he became an army medic. He taught me everything I knew, and then he had a brain aneurysm when I was fourteen.”

“My dad was a firm believer in being prepared for anything, which is I guess kind of ironic,” you said. “Hence the storage locker, and the safety-deposit box, and the gun. My mom, though … she was always kind of dependent on my dad and me, and then when he died, she just …”

You dragged a hand across your cheek to wipe away the tear that had appeared against your will. “God damn it.”

“It’s okay,” Sam said quietly. “Trust me, we know.”

“So then I was on my own,” you said, after a shaky breath. “And _then_ I met Thomas.”

“I was waiting tables, and he came in to the diner with all his friends. He was just an angry rich kid with nothing to do. He made this big show of getting my number and I figured he would never call, but then he did.”

“His family had money – a lot of money – and he promised me I would never have to work again. He promised me I would never have to be alone again.”

“And so for a long time I was okay, I had everything I needed. I kept putting stuff in that locker to sort of pay homage to my dad, because I knew that’s what he would want me to do _just in case_ , but I never figured I would need it. And then when I found out about the money I figured I would never need that either. But here we are.”

“And now I guess I have to start over.” You paused, then laughed in a weary sort of way. “And _now_ I find out that there actually _are_ things that go bump in the night, and I can’t even really say I’m surprised.”

There was a moment of silence after you finished your story. Finally Sam spoke, his voice quiet and serious.

“You could stay,” he said.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean, who had been one-handedly helping himself to more whiskey, allowed the amber liquid to slosh over the table's illuminated surface in his surprise. He cursed, mopping it up with the pile of pillows.

"Sam," he growled.

Sam turned to you. "Excuse us while I speak to my brother a moment."

You nodded silently and exited to the hall, taking your beer with you. You sipped it as the heavy door clicked shut behind you, and then made a face. It had gotten warm while you'd been talking.

You set the bottle down on the floor, and then, hesitantly, crept back toward the door to press your ear against it.

You could hear Dean's voice, low. _Kinda sexy_ , you thought, and then pushed the thought away.

"I feel like there's a lot she's not telling us, Sammy," he was saying.

"Exactly," Sam interrupted, earnest. "Have you ever met a civilian who seemed more suited to the life?"

" _Nobody_ is suited to the life," Dean growled. "Besides, we don't know she's a civ. Have you even tested her?"

A brief silence followed these words.

"No," Sam said finally. "But if she was trying to run into us, she picked a really strange way to do it. Drunk as hell in some random bar -"

"Or just _acting_ drunk as hell in some random bar," Dean pointed out. "Christ, Sam, you've seen me hustle pool a thousand times. What's gotten into you?"

There was another pause. "I don't know," Sam admitted. "There's something about her ... the way she reacted when she saw we were hurt ..." He trailed off.

You almost missed Dean's next words, he spoke so softly. You pressed your ear harder against the door, straining to hear.

"You know what happens when we bring people into this, Sammy."

You couldn't wait any more. The door clicked again as you stepped into the room.

Sam and Dean both looked up at you, their faces grim.

You took a deep breath. Your hands were awkward in front of you.

"I ... overheard," you said finally. "Sorry."

Sam and Dean looked at each other. Dean's face was annoyed, Sam's concerned.

You took a step closer. "Listen, do I get a say in this?"

"No," Dean growled, but you forged ahead anyway.

"I ... want to stay," you said. "If ... if I can."

"You have no idea what you're asking for," Dean said.

You almost stopped at the look on Dean's face, but you took a deep breath and kept talking.

"I want to help people," you said. "I want to do this with you."

Dean stood, his broken arm swinging by his side. "I would give anything - _anything_ \- to have been given a choice in this," he said. "I would give up anything to be able to turn the clock back and live a normal life. And here you are walking right into it. You have _no idea_ " - his voice was getting louder - "what you're asking for."

"Dean," Sam said quietly. Dean ignored him. His beautiful green eyes were blazing, boring into your own, but you did not look away.

"I know what I'm walking away from, and I want to do this," you whispered. "Please. For - for my dad."

There was a very long pause. Dean glanced at his brother, turned back to you.

"Please," you said again.

"Dean," Sam said, and the word contained a hundred conversations, and that was that.

Somewhere around the two-year mark, Sam would stop asking if you were sure.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean's arm healed painfully slowly.

It was a clean break, which was lucky, because Dean's "no hospitals" rule seemed hard and fast. Instead, you bought some quick-dry plaster at a hobby shop and fashioned him a makeshift cast using that, an Ace bandage, and some strips of an old pillowcase. As a joke, Sam signed his name on it, right by the wrist in his pointy, angular handwriting.

The boys had sustained much worse injuries, or so you gathered from Sam's stories, but even Dean Winchester couldn't pretend he'd be an effective hunter with one good arm. So for the first eight weeks that you lived at the Men of Letters bunker, Sam would disappear for a day or two at a time on odd jobs while Dean resentfully agreed to hang around and teach you the lore.

For a while, he barely spoke, and you decided not to push it. He'd drop books on the table in front of you, speaking in gruff half-sentences, and you would swallow all your questions, instead deciding to try to find the answers in the texts.

Studying with Dean was the worst and most silent part of those first weeks. Every once in a while, you would sneak a peek at him, reading quietly away at the other end of the long table, and wrack your brain for ways to get him to talk to you.

By sheer contrast, you treasured the time you got alone with Sam, whether it was cooking, going on supply runs, or training in the various skills required to be a good hunter. He was strong and smart, and you found that the two of you had a lot in common.

It occurred to you at some point that you hadn't had a genuine best friend in years, but Sam was definitely one now. It made you smile to think about.

You had been at the bunker for three weeks when you stood in the kitchen next to Sam, chopping broccoli for a stir fry.

"Your brother hates me," you said, and then immediately felt silly.

You expected an automatic answer, some canned reassurance like ' _of course he doesn't'_ \- but instead Sam put down his knife and looked at you thoughtfully.

"I think it's more that he doesn't trust you," he said finally. "It's hard for him to understand why anyone would walk away from a normal life."

"It _wasn't_ a normal life, though," you protested. "I was basically homeless when the two of you picked me up."

Sam shrugged his broad shoulders. "Still," he said. "You were ... free."

That was the irony of it, you thought. Sam and Dean were two of the freest people you'd ever met. They went wherever they wanted, and they would never have to worry about filling in a tax form or figuring out which one was the salad fork.

You pushed the thought aside. "So how come you understand and he doesn't?"

"I had a normal life for a while," Sam said.

"You did?"

He nodded. "I went to Stanford."

"You _did_? Why'd you leave?"

Sam was quiet for a long time. Later, _much_ later, he would tell you about Jess, but for now he simply said, "Dean needed help, and I needed Dean."

* * *

Sam went off the next day to follow up on a story about a haunted barn a few hundred miles east, leaving you to your silent studies with his brother.

"I never said thank you," Dean said suddenly.

You looked up, startled. There were books, notes, and Men of Letters files strewn across the long table between you, but Dean was looking into your eyes.

"I'm sorry?"

"I never said thank you," he repeated. "For my arm."

"Don't mention it," you said, half-automatically, and he never did again.

As you returned to your reading, however, you allowed yourself a small smile. _Sam_.


	8. Chapter 8

The fourth week you lived in the bunker, you were searching through the drawer in your nightstand for a pad of sticky notes when you caught sight of your ring.

You’d almost forgotten. That part of your life seemed like a distant dream.

“Hey Sam, is there a pawn shop near here?”

He turned to you, his expression puzzled. “I’m sure we could find one. Why?”

You held out the ring to him, wordlessly. He glanced at it and then scanned your face, searching.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, actually,” you said. “I just … at this point I just want to get rid of it.”

The shop was small and dusty, with bars on the windows. A little bell tinkled over the door as you stepped inside: Sam almost had to duck.

The owner came out of the back room at the sound of the bell, an older man with thinning white hair and a friendly smile.

“Can I help you folks find anything today?”

“Actually, I’m selling, if that’s okay,” you said. You dug the ring out of the pocket of your jeans and placed it on a swatch of black velvet lying across the counter. It glittered nicely against the rich fabric, and for half a second you almost felt wistful.

“Let’s see what we have here,” the man said, pulling out a small magnifier that he held up to his eye.

There was a quiet moment while he examined your ring, turning it in the light, and then he set down the magnifier with a small sigh.

“I can’t offer you more than a hundred dollars for this,” he said.

Sam furrowed his brow.

“What?” you asked. “It’s definitely worth more than that – diamond set in platinum –”

The man looked at you with what you hoped wasn’t pity. “I hate having to be the one to tell you this, but you’ve been lied to, sweetheart,” he said. “This is ordinary cubic zirconia, set in sterling silver.”

Hot tears pricked your eyes for the first time in weeks. _Damn you, Thomas_ , you thought, wiping the tears away, frustrated. _Was none of it real?_

“I’ll tell you what,” the pawn shop owner said, gesturing to the wall on the right side of the room. “Instead of buying it off you, I’d be willing to trade for something here.”

You looked over and saw a pegboard wall with all sorts of objects hanging off of it. A few guitars hung in a row, and a dusty record player sat on a table. You stepped closer, searching for something good, and then you saw it. You nudged Sam, pointed.

He grinned. “Good choice.”

The pawn shop owner chuckled to himself as he wrapped up your package. “Can’t say as I’ve ever seen a lady trade a sparkly ring for a shotgun,” he said.

It was a simple pump-action Remington, and the weight of the package felt good in your hands.

“We should go get some ammo for it, and then I can show you how to make the rock-salt rounds,” Sam said as you walked out of the shop with the package over your shoulder.

The bunker had a shooting range, because of course it did.

You brought your Ruger and the new shotgun down to meet Sam, who was waiting with a set of ear protectors for each of you.

You raised the shotgun, aiming toward the targets on the far wall, standing quietly as Sam adjusted your stance. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up as you registered the proximity of him – his broad chest behind you, the heat of his body through your clothes. Blushing, you stuffed the thought down and tried to concentrate.

You held up the gun, staring at the target on the other end of the room: the black silhouette of a person. Sam looked at you, then reached over and clicked the safety off. You blushed again.

You aimed, and aimed … and then finally lowered the shotgun, your grip going slack.

Sam looked at you, pulling one side of his ear protectors away from his ear so he could hear you.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said. You bit your lip. “I’ve never shot _at_ anything before. Cans and bottles and stuff. Nothing like this.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “It’s just a paper target.”

“Shaped like a person,” you pointed out.

Sam was quiet.

“And most of the monsters and shit look like people too, right?”

“Up to a certain point,” Sam said. “I don’t know what to tell you, but I will say it’s easier to shoot at something if the thing is trying to kill you.”

You squared your stance again, trying to imagine the paper target as one of the things you’d read about in your books.

The blast was deafening even with the muffs on, and the recoil took you by surprise. You had a sense that your arms and shoulders would be aching tomorrow if you did this more than a few times.

“Woah!” you said, staring down the range.

As the dust settled, you couldn’t help but be proud of yourself. The shot wasn’t perfect, but you’d definitely hit the target. The entire chest area of the black silhouette was perforated with tiny holes.

Sam was grinning. “That’ll slow down any vengeful spirit,” he said. “Did your dad teach you to shoot?”

Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he was apologizing. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to –”

“No, it’s okay,” you said, nodding. “He did, yeah.”

You pumped the action, and the spent shell popped out of the chamber and clattered on the countertop. Sam didn’t ask you any more about it.


	9. Chapter 9

You had been at the bunker for six weeks when Dean got up suddenly from the table one night. His chair scraped loudly on the cement floor. You and Sam both looked up from your books.

"This is boring as shit," Dean said, "and I feel like suckering some poor bastard out of his beer money. You coming, Sammy?"

You looked from one of the boys to the other. Sam smiled a little. "How are you going to shoot pool with a broken arm?"

"I'll figure something out," Dean said. "Are you coming or not?"

"That's okay," Sam said. "I want to finish this chapter."

"Nerd," Dean scoffed, looking at the dictionary-sized book on pagan gods that Sam had laid out in front of him. "How many pages do you have left?"

Sam flipped forward. "One hundred and sixty-eight," he announced finally.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I guess I'll go by myself then."

"I'll come," you said.

Dean turned his beautiful eyes on you and you tried not to shiver. Despite what you were sure were Sam's best efforts, Dean was still cold-shouldering you most of the time.

Tonight seemed to be one of those times. "It's not really your kind of thing," he said flatly.

You were feeling the blush creep up your cheeks when Sam said, "Dean," just, _Dean_ , in that quiet way of his.

There was a pause.

Dean rolled his eyes again. "Fine," he said. "Get in the car."

The ride was awkward, to say the least. Sam and Dean couldn't afford to become "regulars" anywhere, so they had to keep switching bars as long as Dean was confined to the bunker. The one Dean had chosen tonight was over forty miles away.

After the first five minutes of silence you steeled yourself, sucked in a breath, and said, "So how does hustling pool work?"

"Ha," he said. "You act drunk, you win money. Done."

You felt your face getting hot again, but you ignored it. You were going to make him talk to you, even just this once, if it killed you.

"I actually want to know," you said firmly.

Dean glanced over at you. "Why?" he asked. "You want money, you can just marry some rich douche, right?"

Dean had been sarcastic before, but this was different. The words were _venomous_. You faced forward, staring blankly outward with hot tears stinging your eyes. The view through the windshield was mostly dark except for the small bubble of the Impala's headlights.

"Is that why you hate me so much?" you said finally, quietly. "Because of the money?"

Dean gave you a quick, hard look. "I don't hate you," he said.

"Could have fooled me," you said, and cursed yourself for allowing the first sign of your tears to creep into your voice.

There was a silence. After a moment you looked over at Dean. He was staring thoughtfully through the windshield, his eyes glossy in the dim light.

"You're not the first person to ask to come with us," he said. "Not even close. Every once in a while we have to explain what we do - what we really do -"

He took a long breath. "It'll be - it's always some kid who thinks he can save the world, or some housewife who's bored with her life," he continued. "They always think it'll be like the movies. That we can take them on this great adventure, and then they get to go home and tell their friends about it over a glass of Moscato."

There was another pause. You waited.

Finally he said, "Did Sam ever tell you why we do this?"

You shook your head.

"Our mom was killed by a demon when I was four," Dean said. "Sammy was just a baby ... he doesn't remember her at all."

Dean sighed.

"Our dad couldn't handle it," he said. "He became obsessed. He spent his life and every penny he had learning how to track these things down and destroy them. He started training Sammy and me when we were just kids. For a long time it was the only life either of us had ever known."

There was a pause, but you stayed silent. You had come out of the trees and reached a stretch of road with street lamps, so that Dean's face flashed steadily in and out of sight as he drove beneath them.

"We do this because we have no other choice," Dean said. "We have nothing but each other and this job, and the few friends we've managed to make have a way of getting hurt or killed just for knowing us. When Sam ran off to Stanford I promised myself I would never drag another person into this life. I promised myself I would never create another hunter."

A single street light hung across the road fifty yards ahead. It turned yellow, then red. Dean slowed the Impala to a stop.

"It's not a sport," he said to you. He turned in his seat, his eyes glowing in the reflection of the red light above. "It's not a quest, or an adventure, or a video game. You can't just quit when you get bored or hurt. You can't just stop, not even after it's taken every single thing from you and then some. You just have to keep going, keep running, and wait for the day when you slip up or get caught off-guard and it's all over." His voice had turned hard, bitter.

"I understand," you whispered.

"You don't," he said. "You never will."

The light turned green.

 


	10. Chapter 10

The pink-and-blue reflection of a neon sign slid slowly over the Impala's glassy black hood as Dean parked. You looked up. "Benny's," the sign said. A winking girl in a white dress, rendered in neon, steadily raised and lowered a cartoonishly large mug of beer.

"You coming?"

You shook your head no.

Dean shrugged. "Okay, whatever." The car door creaked as he slammed it behind him and disappeared into the bar.

Maybe you were being naive, you thought. You'd always been reassured by the fact that Sam seemed to have so much faith in you, but it was becoming clear that Dean didn't trust Sam's judgement, or yours. And he _was_ older than either one of you.

Or maybe - maybe Sam was right, and it wasn't about you at all. Maybe you were just a reminder of all the ways in which his life could have been different had he been given a choice.

You sat in the car for a long while before your thoughts were interrupted by a sudden harsh shout.

Two large figures burst through the front doors and stumbled out into the parking lot, grappling as they went. Finally the larger of the two grabbed hold of the other and slammed him against the brick wall of the bar, bringing his face into the pool of orange light from the bare bulb over the door.

It was Dean.

You froze, at a loss. Ordinarily you would have been sure of Dean's ability to defend himself - you'd heard enough stories from Sam - but with one good arm ... you winced, watching the way the big guy was shaking Dean by the lapels of his jacket.

Your fingers trembled, an inch from the door handle. Did he really need help, or would he just be angry with you for interfering?

Finally you sprung out of the car and sprinted toward the two of them, trying to form some kind of plan on the way over.

"Hey!" you shouted, your boots skidding on the gravel.

The big guy turned toward you for a moment before turning his attention back to Dean with a derisive snort. "Nothin' to see here, little lady," he said. "You go on now."

Your thoughts flashed briefly to your Ruger, locked securely in the top drawer of your desk in your underground bedroom. It was too late to come up with an actual strategy, but at least you knew that this guy probably wouldn't hit you.

You hoped.

"What did he do?" you asked, loudly, trying to buy time.

The guy turned back to you, sizing you up, and you could see that Dean had gotten in at least one good swing. The guy's eye was swollen and puffy, thrown into sharp relief by the harsh light.

But Dean's head was lolling against the wall, his eyes half-closed in a way that made your stomach start to turn with panic. His lip was cut, and dark blood was smeared down his chin.

"Well I can't say as I see how that's your business," the big guy said, spitting on the ground. "This your little boyfriend or somethin'?"

You looked from Dean back to him. "No," you said, managing to hide the worry in your voice. "I'm just wondering what would make a person keep hitting a man who can't fight back."

There was a pause while you both examined the big guy's handiwork. You were relieved to see that Dean's chest seemed to be moving steadily up and down; you would definitely have to check for a concussion but he didn't look like he was in immediate danger.

"Listen," you said. "However much money it was, I'm sure he still has it. Let me check his pockets and I'll give it back."

The guy laughed. "Sounds like you do know him after all," he said. "But he turned around and gave more'n half of it to one of them waitresses before I realized he weren't as sauced as I thought."

Oh god, Dean, you thought. And then: how long had you been sitting in the car?

"I'll play you for it," you said, without giving your brain a chance to catch up to your mouth. "I'm sober. No hustling, just a regular game."

Your heart started to beat faster as the guy looked you up and down. You weren't even that good at pool, you thought. What the hell were you going to do?

"Alright," the guy said. "If you win, you and Barbie here walk away."

"Sounds good," you said.

"And if I win ..."

"Anything," you said, hoping for the best.

He looked around for a moment, and then pointed over your shoulder. You turned and spotted the Impala, sitting sleekly in the gravel lot like a chrome-accented puma.

"That yours?"


	11. Chapter 11

Your mouth went dry.

"No," you said. "I have money -"

But the big guy was already strolling across the parking lot toward the car. You spared a glance back at Dean, sitting slumped against the brick wall of the bar with his bandaged arm across his lap, before hurrying to catch up to the stranger.

Your stomach started to turn with panic again as the guy leaned over to check out the beautiful Impala. He let out a low whistle.

"Someone has been taking very good care of this," he said. "You see this? It's practically mint."

"I know," you said, feeling close to vomiting. "I can't bet it to you, he'd kill me if I lost it -"

The guy strolled around to join you on the far side of the car. He was now blocking your passage out from between the vehicles, and you were trapped out of sight of the bar or Dean. With another sick swoop of your stomach, it occurred to you that this was deliberate. You realized you were trying to reason with a person who had been beating Dean to a pulp only a few minutes before.

"I'm thinking it's not really up for debate," the guy said quietly, and you registered the danger in his voice. "In fact, I'm thinking I'm doing you a favor by letting you play me for it at all."

Your hands were shaking.

"Okay," you said.

* * *

Having dragged Dean into the backseat of the Impala for his own safety, you entered the bar. The big guy handed you a cue and started to rack up the balls. With shaking fingers, you dug the key to the car out of your pocket and placed it on the edge of the table.

The big guy won the right to break. You were still trying not to puke as he lined up his shot.

The cue ball hit the point of the triangle, causing the balls to clatter off in all directions. The fourteen rocketed across the table and landed in a center pocket.

The guy gave you a sick grin. "Looks like I'm stripes."

The cue ball had stopped in an awkward spot, so it took him a minute to line up his second shot. When he did, however, the shot was true; the ten sunk neatly into the corner pocket.

On his third shot, he finally missed. You breathed a sigh of relief, but you were still fighting to control your adrenaline. This guy was better than you had thought he would be, and if you lost the Impala ...

You lined your shot up extremely carefully. When you took it, it almost looked like you hadn't hit hard enough. The five rolled slowly across the table and wobbled into the center pocket. You breathed.

You took your second shot, but the four hit the eleven and bounced off at a bad angle. Your turn was over.

The guy seemed to be able to tell how nervous you were, and he was using this to his advantage. When you had been lining up your shot, he had been blatantly checking out your ass. Now he stood there idly chalking his cue while you chewed on your nails, waiting for him to take his turn.

When he finally did, it did nothing to reassure you. In quick succession, three more striped balls hit home in three different pockets. He was now way ahead of you.

You were going to lose the Impala. Dean already hated you, and now you were going to lose him his car.

You wondered if he had ever killed a person before.

You wondered what it would take.

On your turn, your hands were shaking badly. You managed to land the six by a hair, but when you went for the two, the cue ball missed its mark entirely and instead knocked the fifteen - a striped ball - into the pocket on top of the six.

The big guy now had one ball left on the table before the eight.

He took his turn almost lazily, grinning at you.

The nine landed easily in a corner pocket, and then there was only the eight between him and the keys to Dean's car.

Maybe he got cocky. Maybe it was a miracle or divine intervention; you didn't know and you didn't care. All you knew was that when he lined up his shot for the eight, something went wrong.

The cue ball hit the eight at exactly the wrong angle, sending the eight bouncing off into a corner of the table where its passage was blocked by two of your balls. Meanwhile, the cue ball was making its way in a different direction, rolling and then wobbling before dropping into the corner pocket.

He had scratched on the eight. The game was over. You had won on a technicality.

You didn't give yourself time to think. You snatched the keys to the car off the side of the table and ran, not stopping to pay Dean's tab.

You could hear the guy crashing through the bar in pursuit of you. As you reached the door you realized you still had the pool cue in your hand.

You grabbed it by the narrow end and whipped it out behind you as the guy caught up to you. Your whole arm jolted with the force of the impact and you spared a single glance backward to see the guy doubled over, his hands clutching his nose and blood leaking from between his fingers.

You dropped the cue in the parking lot and sprinted for the car, fumbling for the driver's side door handle, flinging yourself into the front seat.

You were halfway back to the bunker before your heart rate slowed down.

Dean would be worse than hungover, but his injuries were superficial. After a thorough examination, Sam said grimly, "It's not his first bar fight."

While Dean slept, Sam made you a grilled cheese for your jangled nerves, and afterward you confessed to him exactly what happened with tears in your eyes. Sam listened carefully, his eyebrows furrowed slightly.

Finally he said, "You did the right thing."

You stared at him. "I put us both in danger," you said.

"No," Sam corrected you. " _Dean_ put you both in danger. Betting the Impala wasn't ideal, but it sounds like you would have been hurt or killed otherwise. Your safety is much more important than the car, okay?"

He paused for a moment. "But I'm not sure Dean feels the same way, so we just don't have to tell him about what happened."

You put your head in your hands. Sam reached over and pulled one of them away from your face, and even at this moment you were conscious of how large his hands were in comparison to yours, and how soft and warm.

"Hey," he said quietly. "You don't have anything to worry about, okay? Dean is fine, you're fine, the car is safe, and honestly I would have settled for the first two."

"I reacted completely irrationally," you mumbled.

Sam's mouth twitched. It was almost a smile.

"No," he said. "You reacted like a hunter."


	12. Chapter 12

“Rhode Island,” you said.

“A few times,” Sam replied. “Once when I was a kid, and Dean and I stayed behind while our dad went on the hunt.”

You tried again. “Louisiana.”

Sam scoffed through a mouthful of his egg-white omelette.

“Are you kidding?” he asked. “That’s the heart of American voodoo country. We’ve probably done four or five cases in New Orleans alone -”

His voice faded. You twisted on your stool to see Dean standing on the kitchen threshold, rubbing his eyes with his one good hand.

There was an awkward pause as the three of you looked at each other.

“Arizona,” Dean said hoarsely.

He limped slowly over to the table and lowered himself gingerly onto the stool next to Sam, cradling the bandaged arm. The familiar crease appeared between Sam’s eyebrows. You stared at your plate.

“Feeling alright, Dean?” Sam asked.

“We’ve never been to Arizona,” Dean said, ignoring the question. “Is there coffee?”

“Here,” you said quickly, pushing your mug across the table. “You can have mine, it’s still hot. I - I don’t need another cup.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Dean said.

“It’s okay,” you said awkwardly. “Just drink it.”

Dean took a long sip and then said, “Thanks for coming to get us last night, Sammy.”

Sam cleared his throat. “Actually, I didn’t,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t? So how -”

Dean looked from Sam to you, and his voice trailed off.

Your face and neck got very warm. Sam stood up and grabbed the empty plates off the table.

“I don’t remember,” Dean said to you.

“She saved your ass, Dean,” Sam called out from over by the sink.

“You were unconscious,” you mumbled.

“She smashed a guy in the face with a pool cue,” Sam said loudly.

“Really?” Dean was looking at you.

“Yes really,” Sam said.

You nodded.

Wordlessly, he dropped his eyes to his coffee. As Dean examined his mug, you examined Dean. He had yet to shave that morning, although the dried blood from his lip was gone. The lip itself had scabbed over, and a bruise had formed radiantly across his nose and left cheek. Somehow; you thought to yourself, he was still incredibly handsome: the purple marks on his face served only to make his eyes shine even more brilliantly green.

Sam shot you a significant look as he left the room, wiping his hands on a dishtowel.

The kitchen door closed with a snap behind him.

Dean cleared his throat.

“Listen,” he said to you. “I was a jerk. Last night, in the car.”

You could feel your face going red. “Don’t -”

“No, hold on,” he said, and he looked as uncomfortable as you felt.

“I … underestimated you,” Dean said. “This is the second time you’ve …”

He trailed off again. You waited.

“What I’m trying to say,” he said finally, “is that I think Sam was right. I think you could be a good hunter. If, uh, you still want to be.”

You said nothing. Dean fiddled with the handle of his coffee cup.

“You have to understand,” he said. “Sam has a way of - uh, trusting people. And his taste in women has - historically - not been great. But that’s no reason - that’s no excuse for me to treat you the way I have been.”

He took a deep breath.

“So I’m sorry,” he said.

* * *

Sam was gone all day, but there was a soft knock on your bedroom door late that night. You looked up from the book that was spread across your knees.

“Come in,” you said.

Sam appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the fluorescent light from the hall.

“I didn’t expect you to be back so soon,” you said.

“It turned out to be nothing,” Sam said. “A couple of brat kids playing pranks on one very superstitious old lady.”

He sat down on the end of your bed.

“Did you talk to Dean?”

“Yeah,” you said.

“How’d that go?”

“He apologized,” you said.

Sam smiled, a real smile, and you were startled by the way it lit up his whole face. _Wow_ he was good looking, you thought, and then hoped he wouldn’t notice your blush.

“I’m really glad,” Sam said. “I know you’ll be an amazing hunter.”

He started to get up, but then he turned back to you.

“By the way,” he said, “I _have_ been to Arizona.”

“What?”

“Earlier, when Dean said we’ve never been to Arizona,” Sam reminded you. “I have. My sophomore year at Stanford some friends and I took a road trip to the Grand Canyon for spring break. He doesn’t know that though.”

“Oh,” you said.

He stood up. “Anyway. I better get to bed. Sorry to interrupt.”

“That’s okay,” you said, smiling at him. “Goodnight.”

There was a pause, and then, wordlessly, he leaned down and gave you a swift kiss on the forehead. You could feel the spot where his lips had been even after the door snapped shut behind him.


End file.
